


lyfrassir edda needs hobbies and enrichment

by alientoastt



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Artistic Nudity, Canon Nonbinary Characters, Canon Trans Characters, Implied Sexual Content, Lyfrassir Edda Joins the Mechanisms, Multi, Nonbinary Lyfrassir Edda, Post Out, Soft Jonny d'Ville, Trans Jonny d'Ville, but make it queer. and sappy, he/they marius von raum, most of them are fat and theyre very lovely, portrait painting, sorry nastya lov u queen, trans gunpowder tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28729827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alientoastt/pseuds/alientoastt
Summary: In which Lyf paints nude portraits of the crew of the Starship Aurora. Jonny takes a nap. Lyf gets cuddled. It's a good time.
Relationships: Drumbot Brian/Gunpowder Tim (The Mechanisms), Lyfrassir Edda/The Mechanisms Ensemble, polymechs
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	lyfrassir edda needs hobbies and enrichment

**Author's Note:**

> i yearned for marius von raum for six hours then wrote this. headcanons abound
> 
> content warnings for  
> \- they are nude  
> \- smoking  
> \- very, very brief mention of jonny's upbringing on new texas (if you want strict fluff, you can just skip jonny's part, really- it gets a little sad)  
> \- self indulgent visual metaphors in a written medium

**MARIUS**

Marius von Raum is laying nude on the couch in front of them. Their brush stills, and they squint a touch, gauging the distance between his relaxed metallic hand where he holds his wine and his knee where the bottom of the glass rests in a way that should be precarious but looks altogether… Bacchic.

And that’s all they can think to describe him, really, the short man so lovely draped before them with the comfortable, crooked smile on their lips.

Indulgent. Exciting, dangerous, beautiful.

 _Beautiful…_ the painter’s hand moves again, detached now from their thoughts, laying thin washes of tempura to be elaborated on in a while in oils.

He lays sideways, one leg crooked as to give their wine-hand a perch and to show thick, dark curls between his strong, soft thighs while the leg closest to Lyfrassir dangles off the couch. The hand that is flesh rests on their stomach, curled loosely around the rise of a plush belly, and the artist’s eyes trace up- following the dark, thin stretch marks that rise from his hips and lower belly- and mull over the surprisingly soft slope of their shoulders and the steady rise and fall of his chest, down to the two lighter scars just under each pectoral and back up to the curling hair between and over their pecs. His head leans back comfortably against the cushions, their beard recently trimmed to show the light indent of a double chin and the corners of his eyes slightly crinkled with their easy smile.

The light Aurora provides from two angled overhead lamps casts soft shadows on his golden skin. They are divine.

Lyfrassir presses their thighs together.

Marius takes another drink.

(Later, they lay next to each other in their bed and Marius braids Lyf's hair and he doesn’t have the energy to talk, but they laugh at one of Lyf’s jokes and hum happily when their fingers make their way into his hair and he murmurs, in the morning, how much they love Lyfrassir and the latter kisses them and whispers back the reply in the breaths after and they are wordlessly happy.)

**IVY**

Ivy Alexandria sits on the same couch a week later, book in hand, and Lyf nearly forgets how to breathe.

But they paint her nonetheless.

Roving eyes wander over round pink cheeks, the slightest knit in her brow as she focuses on the story in her hand, the way her free hand rests on her chest and fidgets with the necklace there, resting between small breasts. She sits cross-legged and leans back into the couch, giving them a view from the front, and they note the resting downturn of her lips. Her sides roll with the way she’s curled up, and with the positioning of her surprisingly strong legs, nothing much else can be seen. The same lamps are dimmed for her pale complexion, and she nearly seems to glow against the wine-dark fabric she lies on.

Her portrait is more… closed, than Marius’. The moment is for Ivy only, and where the previous pirate beckoned in every inch of their canvas, Ivy sits for Lyfrassir alone.

Ivy turns the page.

Lyfrassir smiles and rinses their brush.

**JONNY**

They were not expecting Jonny to be third. They’re more surprised by his request at lunch that morning, though— the mate asks if he can sleep. Lyfrassir nods, a touch puzzled, and when they sit at their easel and wet the canvas, there Jonny is, asleep on the couch and stripped bare.

Jonny d’Ville is… calm. His hands folded over his chest— his right thumb occasionally rubbing back and forth over the skin over his heart, arms too loose and surprisingly un-calloused hands too alive to show any real resemblance to the bodies in caskets he mimics. His pink lips hang parted, small sighing breaths slipping past that bring with them the rise and fall of what Lyfrassir would lovingly be inclined to call a bear belly, blonde hair in a line from the thicket between his thighs to the one on his chest that isn't quite thick enough to mask the white scarring around his nipples. His hair— longer now than when they first joined the crew, to his shoulders maybe— is splayed on the pillow under his head, framing round cheeks and what was a goatee, now a short beard. The most rowdy thing about him is his makeup, smeared from two days’ wear, and even that seems faded some in the quiet of the moment.

Aurora provides no extra light for Jonny’s portrait— Lyfrassir works by the light of the aged sun she passes, casting a dull red on his skin.

Jonny looks almost peaceful. Almost, if not for the weariness etched into every line of his face.

Lyf thinks about the nineteen year old who died on New Texas and chokes up, and Jonny— for all his usual bluster— just gestures for them to come lay down next to him and pets a hand through their long hair, letting them weep into his firm, ticking chest without a word.

**ASHES**

Ashes O’Reilly is next, a cigarette on their lips.

Ashes’ gaze is caught on Lyfrassir, and though they seem genuinely interested in their working hands, the artist still feels their face grow hot.

Ashes is less stoic than they had expected. The quartermaster is comfortable, a flickering curiosity in their dark eyes and the quirk of their pierced lips. Lyfrassir can’t help but wish they could stand and walk over and cup those round cheeks, brush their fingers over the curling peach fuzz at the sides of their face; they stop themself, though. They’re painting wet on wet, the break would show. And so they paint, and let their gaze wander, and fight with the flicker of the candlelight they’re working by, glad at least that Ashes looks positively dreamy in their element, the tips of their coiled hair diffusing the warm light nicely on their round face and thick neck.

The way their legs part, the way they slump comfortably back into the couch, and the hand not holding the cigarette behind their head all scream _power_ ; the hang of their belly, their plush breasts, the shine in their sharp eyes and the thoughtful furrow of their brow… that’s all just Ashes, laid naked without any great scheme or alias.

It isn’t their expression the painter finds themself lost in, though. It’s the lightning-strike stretch marks on their thick inner thighs and on their strong arms and the stretch of their fat belly, sharp lines on plump flesh that catch their attention like a cat watching a laser pointer. Ashes huffs a pleased laugh, drawing attention to their glossy lips and the shimmer of firelight on their dark skin, in their eyes.

The portrait, in the end, is as stunning as the quartermaster, and they kiss the painter gently in thanks. Lyfrassir feels their heart melt a little.

(Later, Lyf makes a point of having dinner with just Ashes; lights some candles, makes their favorite dish, and they talk for hours, giggling from good company and whiskey.)

**TIM & BRIAN**

Gunpowder Tim, like Marius, doesn’t sit still long enough normally. So he is laid against Brian’s side with a large metal hand in his hair and another splayed across his flat tummy, nimble fingers occasionally tracing light circles into his skin.

That keeps him still enough.

Tim is dozing off as time goes on, idly chatting with Brian whose hands appear to do wonders on his scalp and general tension. In the same way, his whole countenance loses some of its… high-strung nature— his jaw unclenched, limbs loose, metal eyes slipping closed. Metal eyes surrounded by lines of more metal like veins where they couldn’t fit under the skin, still doe-eyed and gorgeous. His hair tumbles loosely around him on the pillow, auburn curls like rolling gunsmoke, trailing over his thin cheeks and well-kept beard and muttering lips. The gunner’s own hands rest on his small breasts. The smooth V of his hips leads to a bit of pudge just under his navel, the bulge of it sitting pretty on his otherwise lithe frame. His long legs are crossed, hairy, all smooth muscle and usually ready to break off in a dead sprint at a moment’s notice— for now, though, they’re almost limp. He is small in Brian’s arms, no matter how tall the painter knows him to be.

Brian, wrapped around Tim as he is, is partially hidden by the smaller man (everyone’s smaller than him, he’s got to be over seven feet tall). And for all the hardness the brass and copper of his body should hold, he’s inarguably… the man is shaped like a friend. Round face; kind, drooping eyes; a neat mane of waving copper wire. Whoever sculpted him did so with love and skill— every curve and contour Lyf finds is natural. He peers out over the top of Tim’s head, presses a soft kiss to the gunner’s head, and cuddles him just the slightest bit closer once he’s confident that Lyf has solidified their poses. They look longingly over his barrel chest, the way his sides still somehow form a roll above his hips. 

Lyf has to blink to pull their attention back to the canvas.

Brian and Tim have their few quiet hours together, until Tim gets antsy again and the portrait is done and Brian lets him go, sitting for Lyf to sketch him one last time. He kisses them as he goes, and they hum happily against his warm lips.

**RAPHAELLA**

Raphaella la Cognizi proves the painter’s theory that the crew of the Aurora just never sits still, and that Ashes and Brian are anomalies. (Lyfrassir has reached the point of accepting that they can’t get a portrait of the Toy Soldier for a different reason; without its animated movements, it just looks wrong and lonely. They settle for giving it a few dozen sketches of itself in action with its companions, and it delights.)

Raphaella wakes late in the morning cycle to find Lyfrassir sat beside her in the bed— they had been cuddled up together, her wings around them, and she nearly whimpers for them to lay back down before she sees the canvas in their lap and the tray of paints on their knee. She hums, remembering their conversation about this from the night prior, and rolls over onto her back with a wing pulled up around her side and a hand on her stomach, her head turned to face Lyf on the pillow.

They smile fondly down at her and brush a hand through her curls, letting out a coo when she presses her head into their hand. They ask if she’s comfortable, she nods, and they pull away to start their work.

They’ve heard vague descriptions of angels in their travels, heard Raphaella compared to them over and over again, but they don’t think any comparison is right. Raph is Raph, with her slightly crooked lips and wide face and dark brows that they want to pepper in little kisses. She radiates a sleepy sort of contentment, and everything about the scientist is so soft and lovely (at this point in any of the other portraits they would have stopped themself— but she said they could fawn over her, so they fawn). Her breasts are uneven, as their own are, and the smooth curves of her body lead into wide hips, thick thighs, and a pillowy tummy that they’d do anything to rest their head on. Her legs are thick, sturdy, and her arms soft and Lyf is forced to think of the stolen paintings of sprenaissance women that Marius keeps in his quarters. Her pose is simple, and they’ve drawn her so many times before, the painting goes quickly.

Raphaella waits for her painter to set their canvas and paints and brush on the nightstand before tugging them down into the bed with her, pulling a yelp out of them.

Lyfrassir dobs a dot of paint on her nose and she gasps, mockingly affronted, before rubbing up against Lyf’s face like a cat and smearing a bit of yellow paint across their cheek. They grumble lovingly and pull her a little closer, tugging the sheets over their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> this puppy was written all in one go, so tell me if there's any glaring mistakes! also sorry TS got snubbed :-( i love it dearly it just. doesn't quite fit this fic  
> i'm @alientoastt on tumblr too, go yell there or @jonnyvangelis if you want to! i'm chatty  
> drink water, have a snack, wash your hands, and have a lovely day :D


End file.
